White Lies
by Dracoqueen22
Summary: There are no lies between them. Just the truths he'll never tell. (Oneshot, ProwlxRatchet, warning for non-explicit character death)


a/n: Special thanks to Lady Azar de Tameran for the betawork and the idea! Yes, this is my take on Prowl's origins and I don't think anyone's done it before, but I hardly claim to have read every single TF fic out there.**  
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**Title: White Lies**

**Universe: G1-ish**

**Characters: Prowl/Ratchet, others mentioned**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Character Death**

**Description: There are no lies between them. Just truths that he'll never tell.**

**For the tf-rare-pairings **_**New Beginnings Challenge**_**. Prompt: Ratchet/Prowl, resurrection.**

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There are no lies between them.

They've been partners, all but bonded, for vorns. Long before they crashed on this backwater planet in the middle of nowhere. Spark bonding, it's something they've both agreed they don't want or need. The lack of it doesn't lessen the depth of their relationship; it doesn't immediately negate their emotions.

They are happy as they are, energy fields knitting together and familiar and aligned. Prowl can find Ratchet anywhere, anytime. He always knows his lover is approaching, even in the dark with all of his sensors disengaged. He can sense Ratchet's emotions from a distance.

They don't have to share each passing thought. Every flicker of energy or circuit twitch. Each shift of gears or electrical charge. They don't need a spark bond to make it legitimate.

They already are.

There are no secrets between them because Ratchet reads like an open datapad. Prowl feels no need to hide what Ratchet already knows.

The humans have an interesting concept when it comes to medicine. Doctor-patient confidentiality, they call it. A way to keep a human's medical background personal and private. Cybertronians don't much have much in the way of privacy. It's never been needed, as connected to a network as they were.

Of course, Megatron's war has obliterated that as well, but the fact of the matter remains, true privacy is rare amongst them. It's always been reserved for the elite, the Towers-class, who had strange notions about what was decorous and what wasn't.

Which explains a great deal about Mirage.

If Huffer has squeaky joints, Prowl knows within joors. If Hound has Earth plants in unfortunate places, Prowl soon learns of that, too. If Sideswipe's panel needs a replacement because he's a hedonist who goes after pleasure like it's going to leave him the click his backplate is turned, Prowl eventually finds out.

Ratchet tells him. Ratchet always tells him.

Of course, Sideswipe is most likely to brag about it himself, but that's not the point.

And if Trailbreaker has gotten mud in his joints _again_, Prowl finds out about it. Listens to Ratchet rant about it, truth be told. Although he can admittedly hear the affection in his partner's vocals. Ratchet doesn't truly mind underneath, actually rather pleased that in their ramshackle collection of Autobot survivors, at least a handful of them have made Earth their home.

Whenever Ironhide shows up with that creaky shoulder of his, Prowl gets to hear it from his partner. Of course, Ratchet likes to curse when the old mech can't hear him, and he can't quite hide the concern in his optics either.

Prowl's often heard Smokescreen lament that he seems to know everything. Worse than Jazz, who has his digits in every energon stash.

Prowl supposes Smokescreen isn't wrong. If only because Ratchet tells him it all and the medic hears everything that Prowl doesn't. It's a nice system they have.

Ratchet gets to rant, get the pain and the disappointment and the anxiety off his chassis, and Prowl learns all the tips and tricks and inner cogs of the great Autobot machine.

He knows all there is to know about Ratchet as well. How the medic was raised by a single caretaker in Iacon, and he attended the medical university on scholarship. That Ratchet went through an array of paint schemes before deciding on the red and white scheme he's most recognized for today. Once, he'd even tried an optic-blinding chartreuse, Prowl's been told.

He knows that Wheeljack is Ratchet's closest friend, that they were raised all but next door to each other, and wanting to keep his oldest companion in one piece is part of the reason Ratchet became a medic. He wanted to be certain that if Wheeljack ever had an accident, Ratchet could fix him. Could keep him alive.

Ratchet's favorite energon is low-grade spiced with sulfur filings. He'd once been the life of the party until the war and the dying mechs and the broken frames. High grade is only a temporary balm to the weight of all those lost, and Prowl doesn't like him to drown his sorrows. Interfacing is usually a better distraction. Ratchet is much like Sideswipe in that regard, an utter sensualist.

His servos are sensitive, carefully calibrated instruments of a medic's profession. Prowl has to be careful not to damage either; what is pleasure can quickly turn to pain. And Ratchet is not particularly fond of pain. Bondage, yes. A bit of roleplaying, certainly. But pain is not part of the equation and never has been.

Ratchet likes the humans, finds them interesting. His friendship with Sparkplug Witwicky is no fabricated thing. Prowl's even caught him studying human medicine, though Ratchet's servos are too large to be of much use.

He loves music but hates to dance because he has no rhythm. He doesn't have a favorite color, but if pressed will admit to a fondness for shades of red.

He looks upon First Aid as not only a student but a creation as well. In fact, Ratchet treats a lot of the Autobots as though they were errant younglings in need a good, firm swatting. Optimus Prime included. Though Ratchet would never admit so aloud. It would infringe upon his reputation as a cold-sparked terror.

Ratchet hates the war, is terrified with every battle that he's going to lose a member of their family, and it's only afterward that he lets himself break down. He's confessed his fears to Prowl, but the lieutenant has watched. He knows that Ratchet's servos never shake. That he's confident and determined and dedicated while in the medbay.

He's watched Ratchet drag more sparks from the arms of Primus than he's seen the Decepticons succeed in taking. He's seen Ratchet at his highest and his lowest and at every stage in between. So it's safe to say that he's familiar with the medic in all the ways that truly matter.

And Ratchet knows Prowl. The real Prowl.

Well, at least he thinks he does.

He knows the mech beneath the faceplate, the spark that spins in his chassis, the feel and weight of his energy field.

But he doesn't know Prowl. Not really.

After all, Prowl died so many vorns ago. Long before the Decepticons ever rose up. Long before Megatron even had a thought about seizing power for himself. Long before Orion Pax became Optimus Prime. Primus, probably even long before Orion Pax was sparked.

It's not all a lie.

Prowl _had_ been an enforcer before the war. He was a boring mech with a boring life and very few if any friends. He lived orn to orn, performing his duties, filling out his paperwork, and returning to his apartment alone. He wasn't unhappy. He didn't think about it enough to be unhappy.

He was content perhaps. Even fulfilled. But he'd never been more than that.

And then, one joor, Prowl had responded to a riot down in old Praxus, a derelict and rundown ghetto that had been long abandoned by the elite. It was the gutter, a place where nobodies and empties and the trash were left to rust.

It was where the current Prowl lived. He's not the original one, of course. But sometimes, he couldn't remember who he had once been. What was his former designation again? Timestamp? Burnout? Dent? He supposed it didn't matter anymore.

So the mech who would be Prowl lived in the gutters. He was there the orn of the riot. The day the enforcers were called to quash said disorder before the stench of it could even waft to the high and mighty upper caste.

Sometimes, the nobodies liked to rise up, usually fighting each other over some scrap of energon or modification or really because they had nothing better to do. Sometimes, they were too nutrient-starved to be logical about it. Sometimes, they fought each other just because they couldn't do anything else.

And sometimes, the enforcers came, wiped out half of the nobodies and ignored the survivors who slunked back to the shadows to be forgotten.

Prowl offlined that day. A stray shot or a lucky one or, Pit, maybe it was even friendly fire. He doesn't remember which. Energon starvation will do that to a mech. Make it harder to access memories or record them properly.

He'd poked and prodded at the fallen enforcer. He'd initially just decided to just take what he could, energon and supplies and whatever else the mech carried. After all, Prowl wasn't going to need them anymore.

But then, he'd gotten an idea. It had struck him out of nowhere.

The mech was offline. His spark had guttered and extinguished.

None of the other enforcers had realized this yet. The riot was enormous, easily several hundred or so nobodies against half as many enforcers. The half-sparked uprising would be quelled, and there would be devastation in its wake, and it always took at least a decaorn to put things to right.

It wasn't uncommon for mechs to go missing.

But what if one didn't? What if one showed up later, disorientated and injured but alive?

What if an enforcer didn't die?

It was brilliant. His processor chomped on the idea, and the more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

Hacking a dead mech's processor and memory banks before the war, especially one whose frame hadn't yet cooled, was no harder than plugging into a computer terminal.

Prowl was a loner. He had no lovers or close friends, and his caretakers had offlined some time ago. Prowl actually was kind of an aft.

No one would miss him. No one would care. No one would notice if he acted a little… _different_.

He had creds though. Lots of them. He'd never had any reason to spend them. And now, he had more than enough to start a new life elsewhere, to leave the enforcers there in Praxus and move to Iacon. Or Polyhex. Or anywhere really.

The possibilities were endless.

Morals and ethics were and still very much are a fluid, flexible idea in his opinion. Prowl was offline; his spark had extinguished. He didn't need his frame or his functioning. His creds. His life.

But the mech who would become him did.

He wasn't a nobody yet. He wasn't an empty. He was forgotten, but he wasn't energon-crazed.

The decision was made, and he didn't take long debating it either.

That orn, one bot had been extinguished.

Less than a decaorn later, another Prowl stumbled in from the gutters of Praxus, reported to his commanding officer, and was sent to his apartment for some much needed recovery time. No one noticed any difference. No one particularly cared. They'd barely lifted a faceplate at his reappearance or damage or confusion. They glanced at him for an astrosecond and then immediately turned away.

It had been perfect. He was – _is_ – perfect. The perfect Prowl.

Frag, he is a _better_ Prowl than the original had ever been.

Prowl had been intelligent, detail-oriented, and an utter bore. A decent enforcer, efficient but uninspired. Unimaginative. Robotic. Doing everything to the letter and never more. Never thinking around or outside or beyond.

But the new Prowl is even better. Just as efficient but more fluid. Crafty as only those who have had to struggle can be. Inventive. Resourceful. He has a better talent for marksmanship and tactics. So better in fact, that it isn't even two vorns after his move to Iacon that he is noticed by the office of the Prime.

He's finally clawed out of the gutters, and he had a dead mech to thank for that.

It's too easy to be Prowl. It feels like he was created to be this mech, this once-enforcer now tactician to the Prime and second-in-command of the Autobots.

Sometimes, he forgets he's not always been Prowl.

After all, what truly defines a mech? He is Prowl in appearance, in the design of his frame, and the life he has taken.

But the first Prowl would never have befriended Jazz. He had no need for companionship. Would've never tolerated such a vibrant personality.

He never would've devised tactics that save so many lives. He couldn't think laterally. He couldn't put himself in his enemy's place or feel their weakness as his own.

He wouldn't have become mentor to a devastated Bluestreak. He lack the empathy. The ability to feel true concern, to connect with others.

And he certainly wouldn't have met Ratchet. Or fallen so desperately for him.

He's living a lie, but really, should he call this Prowl's life? If Prowl would've never done any of these things?

He can only wonder. Sometimes as he slips into recharge. Others as he sits amongst his colleagues and friends.

Occasionally, there's amusement. A secret thrill that he's perpetuated this falsehood for so long and no one has noticed. No one even suspects. No one has guessed that their second-in-command is not Prowl of Praxus, raised by two wealthy but extinguished caretakers. That Prowl is truly some forgotten mech from the gutters who had an opportunity and snagged it with both hands.

Other times, there is guilt.

For lying to his best friend, the brother he never had. For keeping the truth of his spark from his lover, his partner in everything.

He wonders how Ratchet would react if he knew. If it would be the end of all things or if Ratchet would be as pragmatic as Prowl himself is. Sometimes, he just wants to shout it to everyone, send out a mass communication, just to get the lie out of his processor.

The fear of losing everything he's fought for, everything that means anything, holds him back. He cannot give up his friend, his lover, his family. He can't afford to lose the Autobots their chief tactician, Prime his main confidante. He can't bear to see the disappointment or betrayal in Bluestreak's optics.

And really, it's a good thing that Ratchet doesn't want to spark-bond. Prowl cannot turn him down without giving a good reason why. The truth would come out, and he cannot say what the end result would be. Better all around if he keeps it to himself. Better he keep this lie that isn't a lie at all.

Ratchet always greets him when he returns to their shared quarters. Between the two of them, it's hard to say who works the latest or the longest. Despite the fatigue, Ratchet always has a smile for him. Prowl always has a caress to offer.

He lives for the quiet moments. Curling together on the large couch as Ratchet gripes about the twins or groans about Gears' hypochondria or exclaims over Wheeljack's latest escapade or mutters about Red Alert overexerting himself or laments about Prime's lack of decent recharge.

Ratchet knows all the sensitive places to touch on Prowl's frame. He's learned them over the vorn, and never comments over the fact Prowl's doorwings aren't as responsive as they usually are for all Praxians.

He could model his frame after them after all, but he couldn't mimic all of the delicate circuitry. Not on the funds he'd had available. After time, he could have fixed that lack, but he'd gotten so used to it, that he hasn't bothered.

Ratchet never seems to mind anyway. He seems to have a fascination for Prowl's pelvic array, for dipping his digits into the seams and stroking thick cables beneath. He likes the press of a heavy energy field, the sensation of their fields knitting together, pulsing between them.

Sometimes, three little words slip out. Prowl means them, and he knows that Ratchet does, too. But every time he hears them, the guilt doubles in on itself. How can Ratchet love a mech he doesn't really know?

Prowl cannot bear to lose his partner, his life. He knows this for certain. Perhaps it is better in the end for everyone involved.

After all, there are no lies between them.

Except for the one truth Prowl will never tell.

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a/n: Comments are love and fuel my suddenly alert and alive muses! I hope you enjoyed. :)


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